


the adrenaline in my veins

by MajesticGaZell



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on Kaciart, Blood, Bullying, Child Neglect, Fluff, Gladdy Daddy, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Human Experimentation, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, MT Prompto Argentum, Mama Iggy, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Poor Prompto Argentum, Prompto Argentum Needs a Hug, Prosthetics, Self-Esteem Issues, She's Amazing, based on art, fictional racial slurs, graphic depictions of injury, unintentional self-harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajesticGaZell/pseuds/MajesticGaZell
Summary: After seven years of training, Unit 05953234 is taken from the facility and cast into a world where nothing makes sense. Unit 05953234 is just that: a unit. Magitek. Created to serve the Niflheim Empire. But these humans treat it like one of them. They show it a world full of trees and sunlight and books andpeace.It's given a name. It learns to live.It starts to believe that maybe it's really human, too.And then it learns how impossible that is."Don't tell anyone about this."05953234 opens and closes his fist. The joints creak and pop painfully. He glances at the warped metal, then nods. They're the most clear and direct orders he's gotten in a very long while. He hangs onto the words like they're a lifeline.He won’t tell anyone.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	the adrenaline in my veins

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this piece by Kaciart:  
> https://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/623568650228596736

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! I am hoping to get back into writing in the fanfiction world. A few of y'all might've noticed that I deleted all my works off of Ao3 a little while back. I wasn't happy with my writing style and I didn't want those stories weighing me down— at least, I had thought that in the moment. Honestly, I completely regret deleting them. So! I will be reposting new and improved versions of those stories! Come time, or course. It's gonna take me a while.  
> By the way, **if someone can help me figure out how to directly embed a link into the text on Ao3, that would be much appreciated.** I am technologically inept.

The first time it happens, Unit 05953234 doesn’t understand the concept of age. It doesn’t understand anything, really.

A dozen humans are bustling around it, speaking to one another in hushed and urgent tones. Tools clink against each other, passed around from person to person as needed. They look like the scientists from the facility, but some things are missing: the malicious smiles, the laughter, the cold, steel operating table, the pain.

None of that’s here. Here, the object beneath it is forgiving and soft and _warm._ Here, there’s nothing more than a pinch as they stick a needle through the crook of its inner elbow. 

Everything falls into blissful oblivion after that. 

The dreams are weird. They’re bright and colorful, nonsensical and filled with the otherworldly sights 05953234 had taken in while being transported to this strange facility. There’d been windows in that vehicle, and from them it’d seen brown rods with green ovals protruding from the ends, bodies of endless, shimmering blue, and a ceiling of azure and speckles of white that seemed to go on _forever._

The sights now rattle the again in its sleep, and it balks when it realises it’s crying. 05953234 is not supposed to cry, so it prepares itself for recalibration. 

It never comes. 

The endless blue ceiling and the strange light it cradles continue to silently shine upon it. 05953234 feels… something it can’t quite put a finger on. Calm. Safe. But it’s still crying.

 _(Peaceful,_ it’ll later learn. _Grateful. Relieved.)_

Then it wakes up. It’s in the room with the not-scientists that look like scientists. There are two humans dressed in all black that stand ramrod straight by the door, faces stoic as stone.

The days blur into a lost semblance of time. 05953234 learns, slowly, of a world that had never been made known to him _(him,_ not _it)._ He learns that he’s sitting on a _bed,_ and that he’s in a large fort known as a _city_ called _Insomnia,_ and that the sour, crunchy thing with the red skin is an apple. He learns that the big, blue ceiling isn’t a ceiling, but the _sky._

He didn’t know he was capable of _liking,_ but he likes the sky. He spends most of his time staring at it from his _bed._ It’s so _big._ It’s so _blue._

And then it isn’t. One day, the strange wisps-- _clouds--_ cover the sky completely, dense and gray and dark. Then there’s water falling from the sky, and he marvels at it.

 _Rain,_ the nurse tells him. He opens the window for 05953234 and lets him stick his hand out and feel the water hit his palm. He likes that, too.

The humans seem to balk at calling him 05953234, though he doesn’t see the issue with his designation. Nonetheless, he’s assured that a new designation will be assigned to him soon. Until then, he watches the sky as it changes from blue, to white, to gray.

One day, the sky gets darker than he’s ever seen it. There’s a quiet rumble that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He can feel it in his chest. Then it gets louder. 

There’s a blinding flash from his window and a deafening _boom,_ and Unit 05953234 is suddenly back in the facility, training with grenades and other explosives. He watches as Unit 05954219 is called to the front of the MT lines for a _demonstration._ It hadn’t been a very functional unit, so it was only a matter of time. 

The commander leads it further away, gives it an ovular object, and shouts, “Here’s what _not_ to do.” Then he tells Unit 05954219 to pull the pin sticking out of the object and then wrap itself around it. 

_Boom!_

There’s something wet and warm dripping down his face. His ears are ringing. He smells and tastes metal, copper. The acerbic tang of it stings his senses. 

“...to…! Pr...mpto!”  
Someone is shouting, but it's muffled by the ringing. Unit 05953234 strains his hearing-- he needs to hear his orders-- but everything seems… muddled. Cloudy.

 _Cloudy. Clouds._ The _fluffy_ things in the _sky._ How did he know those words?

“Come on, kid… Prompto!”

05953234 blinks, and he’s back in Insomnia, next to his bed. He feels his heart pounding painfully fast, and his hearing is still off. There’s a man in front of him. He recognizes him, but can’t remember why.

“Oh, good. You with me?”

The man has a stubbly outline to his face. His features are _severe--_ another word the nurse taught him-- with hair cropped close to his head. 

Then it clicks. This is the man who transferred _(saved,_ the other humans say) 05953234 from the facility to Insomnia. He’d seemed like a regular commanding officer to 05953234 at first, but he never raised his voice, never readied a blow. Meeting him was the first time the word _human_ came without _pain._

He’d said his designation was _Cor._ At the time, it seemed like a strange designation. Now, 05953234 knows that a lot of humans have strange designations. 

“Prompto?” one of the humans dressed in black inquires, a single brow raised. Dimly, 05953234 wonders if he could raise only one brow. Everything in his body feels coiled up.

“Figured he needed a name, yeah?” Cor replies. He looks back to 05953234 and snorts. “And what are you doing, kid?”

05953234 stops attempting to raise a single brow. He feels himself tense up more and looks down. “Sorry, sir.”

He wonders what _Prompto_ means. He likes learning new words. There are so many he never knew of, it’s dizzying, but fascinating. 

“Don’t apologize,” Cor says, and 05953234 finds the command odd, but doesn’t ask any questions. He’s not allowed to ask questions. “You don’t need to call me sir, either.”

05953234 looks up at Cor. The taller human must see his confusion. 05953234 prepares himself for punishment.

Cor sighs. “We’ve got a long way to go, huh, Prompto?” 

05953234 realizes that _Prompto_ is being used like a name. It sounds strange like a name, too. Maybe it belongs to one of the guards. 

05953234 looks up to see who Cor is addressing, but the man is looking him right in the eye. 

“What? Don’t like it?”

05953234 swallows his anxiety. He has to ask.

“Don’t like what, sir?”

Cor sighs again. “The name. Prompto. Figured you could use one. You don’t like it?”

05953234 replays the words in his head a few times, trying to make sense of them. He doesn’t get it. Cor studies his face, mutters something under his breath, then sits back on his heels. 

“It’s a name. It’s like the human version of a designation.” 05953234 figured that already, but is grateful for the confirmation. “I’ve been thinking of one for you, and _Prompto_ popped into my head, and it seemed like it fit. You, um… if you don’t like it, you don’t have to use it.”

Prompto involuntarily scrunches up his face. He’s so confused. 

“But I am not a human, sir.”

The air seems to become thicker as 05953234 says the words. The two guards’ faces at the doors seem to tighten, and Cor looks away from him. It’s silent for a moment, then Cor lifts his hand. 05953234 braces himself for inevitable impact, but the man just rests his hand on 05953234’s shoulder. It’s heavy and warm. It doesn’t hurt.

He likes it.

“You’re a human, kid. Even if you don’t believe me, you’re _going_ to get a new designation. No way is anyone calling you by a distribution number.” Cor runs his other hand down his face. He looks tired. 05953234 meets his gaze. “If you don’t like Prompto, tell me. We’ll think of something for you.”

05953234 reels at the information. He has to pick the words apart and ensure that he’s correctly interpreting them.

Humans are very confusing.

“I can… have a name?”

Something painful and warm wells up in 05953234’s chest and bubbles up toward his throat. It’s a sensation he’s felt it before, but it’s never felt… _good._ Cor’s face seems to soften.

“Yeah, kid. Of course. I-- of course,” 

_Prompto._ 05953234 runs the word through his head. He thinks of each letter, of each sound. How those sounds equate to something that could mean _him._ Something that isn’t numbers. He says it aloud, and his heart flutters.

“Prompto.”

Cor nods. “Prompto. Do you like it?”

05953234 thinks of the sky. He thinks of the rain, and learning new words. He thinks of his bed, and the blankets, and apples, and everything else he’s liked.

 _Like_ doesn’t seem like a big enough word to describe this feeling. 

“Yes, sir,” he says. “I really like it.”

It still feels like an inadequate expression for the feeling, but 05953234-- Prompto…?-- begins to feel himself relax. He realizes his hand has been gripping at one of his bedframe’s legs this whole time, and his joints ache a creak as he unwinds. 

“Holy shit, kid.”

Right as his hand pulls away, Cor looks at the bedframe. The metal there is _mangled,_ five clear indents marring the bedframe’s leg. 

“Did… Did you do that?” Cor asks, still not looking at _Prompto._ He wraps his hand around where Promtpo’s once was, then squeezes. Hard. The metal holds strong. He squeezes with both hands. He stands up and kicks it. Nothing changes.

“...Sir?” one of the guards asks. Cor looks up at him, shakes his head, then turns to Prompto. He kneels down and leans in close, placing a hand on each of Prompto’s shoulders. It makes him want to curl up to protect himself, but Cor still hasn’t hurt him yet, so Prompto forces himself to remain upright. 

“Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?” Cor whispers, looking him in the eye with an intense sort of stare. Prompto knows that this is _definitely_ an order. 

“Yes, sir,” he responds, though he’s not sure what he’s not supposed to tell anyone about. Cor nods. 

“Good,” he says, nodding and rising to his feet. Prompto gets off the floor as well and makes to sit on the bed. 

Just as Cor is about to leave the room, he turns back, places a hand on top of Promtpo’s head and moves it from side to side. The touch isn’t unpleasant, just… strange. 

“No more calling me sir, kid,” he says, then leaves.

He comes back later while the guards are posted outside. He takes out some brightly-colored tape, rolls it around the indents on the bedframe, then blinks a single eye at Prompto as he leaves. 

His hand still aches from gripping the metal so hard, but his chest feels warm. 

“Prompto,” he says, and smiles.

* * *

Prompto spends a year in what the medical team dubs _socialization_ and _integration._ He learns the word for those brown poles with green ovals coming out of them: trees. He learns what the sun feels like on his skin, what breathing in the fresh air of _outside_ feels like. He learns the names of those around him. He learns that it’s okay to cry and to ask questions. 

He gets a headache almost each and every day with the amount of information his brain is trying to process and absorb, but it’s worth it. 

He likes learning. There’s so much… _life_ that he never would have known about had it not been for Cor. 

He asks after the man who saved him. He’s told that the marshal is a busy man, but Prompto glimpses him walking past his room one day. Their eyes meet for a split-second, but Cor looks away and sets his face into a cool, steely expression, and continues onward. 

That’s when it happens for the second time. Cor is important. Cor is safe. Cor is warm. Cor _gave him a name._

And Cor wouldn’t even _look at him._

The first thing that hits is the panic. What had he done wrong? Prompto blanks, his mind going dark as everything shuts off around him. He’s alone in his room when it happens, and time passes in a manner that Prompto can’t tell how much of it has passed. 

When he comes to, the pencil he’d been holding is crushed to splinters in his hand. Fragments of wood poke through his skin, but it doesn’t hurt all that much. He feels numb. And he’s been through worse.

The numbness subsides and is replaced with an inexplicable weight in his chest. His limbs turn to lead and he feels like the ground is pulling him toward it, wanting to suck him under. He stares at his hand and feels tears well in his eyes. They dribble down his face as blood dribbles down his arm. 

He thinks of the duct tape Cor had put around the dented leg of his bedframe. He remembers, _‘Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?’_

Maybe that’s what he did wrong. Cor couldn’t bend the metal like he did while he was unconscious (was he unconscious?). He doubts that someone could shatter a pencil in their hand. Maybe he _is_ different. 

Maybe he’s not what these people think he is. 

The panic comes again, but he doesn’t go blank. He walks to the adjacent bathroom and takes the splinters out of his hand. It hurts, but that’s fine. It feels good, really. His brain feels like it’s been shattered like the pencil, and the pain gives him a focal point. 

He digs around the room for antibiotic ointment. The nurses taught him that it was important to put on small cuts, so he does.

It’s been months since his arrival in Insomnia, and the medics only come by once a week now. He hopes they don’t notice the next time they visit.

* * *

Somewhere along the line of _socialization_ and _integration,_ Prompto learns that he’s supposed to have four organic limbs. The idea is a strange one, but he realizes that the humans think he’s human, and so they expect him to have four organic limbs. 

Prompto does not have four organic limbs. 

At six years of production, the process of removing organic matter for the sake of power and efficiency begins. It’s natural for MT units. When the doctors ask him why he’s missing the organic matter of his left leg, he explains, but they want specifics. They ask him, “How?”

He doesn’t realize he’d forgotten how until the question was posed, but it all comes flooding back. 

_“Breaking the femur is supposed to be one of the most painful things one can experience,” one of the scientists says. The two others in the room laugh at that._

_“Well, good thing it’s not us, eh?” came the response._

_They proceeded to break his femur._

_Decidedly, that was not anywhere near the most painful thing one can experience, as 05953234 soon found out. It sees it in technicolor flashes: a saw, red, burning, like his leg is on_ fire, _cussing, screaming, red,_ fountains _of red._

He wakes up thrashing, but his arms and legs are restrained. Leg. Singular. The fire he’d felt from then seeps into the now. What’s left of his organic leg _burns._

He tilts his head down as far as he can with his shoulders still attached to the bed. The mechanical implement is missing. There are thick bandages around the organic matter. 

He suddenly remembers how he felt when he woke up with a mechanical leg in place of the one he’d grown up with. He remembers the numbness, the fear, the agony, the helplessness and the deeply-buried hatred beneath it all. 

He feels it all over again. 

A nurse comes in. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding. He wonders what he’ll do to him. He wonders where the scalpels are, where the horrifying smile is. 

The nurse just sits down. There’s a crinkle to his brow. He’s frowning. He looks… _worried,_ that’s the emotion he’d been taught matches this expression. But that’s inexplicable. The nurses work with the doctors. The doctors took his leg away. 

“I’m sorry,” says the nurse. His nametag gleams in the fairy lights that had been set up in Prompto’s room-- the fluorescents reminded him too much of the labs. _Oliver,_ it says.

“You had a panic-attack. We had to restrain you. I’m sorry. You’d started to…” 

The nurse looks slightly green and pallid. Sickly. Prompto got sick once, and was told to rest. He was told that everyone rested when they got sick. Why didn’t this nurse?

“I’m afraid you were a risk to both yourself and those around you, which is why we have the restraints on. Now that you’re awake, do you feel like you’re safe enough for them to come off?”

Prompto nods desperately. Even though the bed is soft and the lights are dim and his body is warm, the restraints bring him back to a place he doesn’t want to be. 

“Alright,” Oliver says. He gets up and undoes the bands around his body. There are strange gloves on his hands, too, white and uncomfortable. Those come off as well. Prompto feels like he can breathe again. 

“Engineering is working on a new prosthetic for you,” Oliver says. He sits back down beside Prompto. He has a rounded face and kind, soft features. Prompto feels a little warmer. “It’ll take some time to get everything set up, though. I’ve got a wheelchair here until then, so let me know if you need anything.”

Prompto follows the gesturing hand to the chair mounted upon wheels. There are handlebars on the back. His skin crawls at the thought of not being able to control where he’s going. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Oliver says. Prompto realizes his chest is tightening up again. His breaths come with less ease. 

“Deep breaths, okay? I know wheelchairs aren’t fun, but I promise it’s not forever. You can wheel yourself around, too, if that makes you feel better.”

Prompto startles at that. He can push himself around?

“Can you… show me how?” 

Oliver gives a small smile. It’s a calming smile. “Of course. Let me help you figure it out.”

The night is quiet, soothing, as Oliver gives Prompto instructions on how to use the chair. There are little handles on the wheels that he can use to maneuver the chair in the direction he wants. He has to make sure that the brakes are applied when he’s not moving. Oliver tells him to make sure he uses the silver bars lining his room and bathroom whenever he’s transferring to or from the chair. Prompto takes in all the information, nodding along. 

Prompto gives an experimental push to the wheels with his arms to move forward. He glides across the tile smoothly. 

Oliver smiles at him and, despite everything, he smiles right back.

* * *

After the incident concerning his leg, Prompto finds himself undergoing strange tests. The doctors measure the force he can apply to an object. They ask him to lift a variety of objects with given weights. Nothing ever hurts, but it feels… wrong. 

He has a few more _‘panic-attacks’._ Every time he has one, he breaks something. 

It scares him. 

The doctors mutter to one another, saying, “We can’t let him go out like this,” “If he has a panic attack in public, he’ll be a liability to the Crown,” “We’ll have to prolong the project.”

Prompto wants to be able to leave his room more often, and if what the doctors say is true, then the panic attacks are preventing that. He starts to see a person deemed a _psychologist,_ and they teach him how to sense when feelings of anxiety begin to increase to a boiling point and how to deal with it when that happens. It helps.

Every now and then, his thoughts drift to the man who gave him a name. Ironically, he can’t remember the name of the man. He remembers stern features, but they’re blurred. Everything from early on is muddled. Prompto wishes that everything that came before Insomnia could be muddled, too, but it remains absolute in his mind. 

He thinks about the man who gave him a name. 

Something in his chest aches.

* * *

At nine years of age, when Prompto meets Mr. and Mrs. Argentum, he smiles. He’s in good hands. They smile and nod along with everything his therapist says. They shower him in comforting touches. They’re encouraging and warm and kind and it’s everything Prompto ever wanted. 

Then he gets into their car, and the warmth seeps away. There are no amiable conversations. No joy. No kindness. The Argentums drive Prompto to their apartment without saying a word to him. He follows them inside and he tries to take in the fact that he has somewhere that’s _his,_ now, but the growing atmosphere leaves him scared. 

He takes a deep breath.

“Down the hall. Second door to the right.”

Prompto’s head snaps to Mrs. Argentum. She didn’t even look at him while saying the words, but Prompto nods anyway. He makes his way upstairs. He opens the second door to the right. 

It’s dark. There’s a mattress on the floor. A tiny, clip-on booklight sits on top of it. There’s a pile of folded clothing in the opposing corner of the room. 

Something in his chest begins to crack.

Prompto leaves his room and explores the other one. It’s a bathroom.

It’s the only other room upstairs. 

He goes back down the stairs. No one is there. Everything becomes two times larger.

He goes outside. The car is gone from the driveway. 

Prompto walks back to the kitchen. There’s a note, but the words seem to swim in his vision, so he retires to his room for the night. 

So this is what living in an apartment is like. It’s not what Prompto was expecting. He curls up on his mattress in the cold, empty room. 

He wants to go back to the Citadel.

He wants to go _home._

* * *

If there’s one thing Prompto is good at, it’s following instructions. Oliver once told him he was _too_ good, and should try breaking the rules every once in a while, but that seemed extraordinarily illogical and counterintuitive. 

Not to mention, _terrifying._

When Prompto wakes up after his first night in the apartment, he reads the stack of papers the Argentums had left for him. They tell him about school and how to get there. They tell him a package provided by said school will be arriving with all the supplies he’ll need. They tell him that the Argentums expect exceptional grades, and Prompto has to think in order to remember what _‘grades’_ means. 

He’s notified that a single parent will accompany him once a week to his appointments at the Citadel. They seem to make a very big point of the fact that they are going out of their way to do this. Prompto makes sure he’s grateful. 

There’s a multitude of other things among the scattered documents. Allowances. Rules. Expectations. Guidelines. He reads it all and soaks it in. He feels… strange.

On one hand, it’s been terribly long since he’s been given such a quantity of clear orders. On the other, that ache from last night settles back in his chest and makes itself at home. He’s relieved, but...

The ones at the Citadel never taught him the name for this emotion.

* * *

At ten years old, Prompto’s lost track of the episodes. He’s on classroom cleaning duty when he’s at the receiving end of the usual taunts and jeers from his classmates. It’s astounding, really, how little creativity these kids have, considering Prompto would be a billionaire if he had a single crown for every time they repeated an insult.

 _‘Nif scum!’ ‘Fatass!’ ‘Red-eyed freak!’_ and _‘Six’s bigot!’_ were all really run-of-the-mill insults-- probably language the kids picked up from hateful parents. But finally, someone gets some spark of inspiration, and Prompto’s sweeping the classroom when he hears it. 

“I hear they’re making these things in Niflheim called Magitek Units. They’re like robots. Betcha the loser is one of ‘em-- it never reacts to anything we do or say because it _can’t.”_

Something in the back of Prompto’s mind thinks, _damn,_ whatever ten-year-old said that should look into joining the Insomnia Intelligence Agency when they grow up because they are _spot-on,_ but all that registers in that moment is pure, unadulterated _fear,_ and fear is nasty-- it’s _scary--_ so his brain quickly turns into _fury_ and--

_Crrck!_

Prompto startles at the sound. Whatever kid was talking shuts the hell up and stares at him, along with the rest of the students. They’ve got a good reason to be staring, too, because Prompto just snapped the steel, industrial broom he was using with his bare hands. 

Someone screams something along the lines of, “It’s gone haywire!” and Prompto thinks that maybe he has. Maybe the Gralean scientists had been right this whole time. He’d never felt such… such…

Such _rage._

Blood drips from his arm. The sharp end of the broken broom slashed his arm open. It’s a fiery sort of pain, but it’s not so bad. He goes to the nurse’s and is simply pointed to the cabinets and granted exactly zero assistance in dressing his wound. He settles for steri-strips, gauze and medical tape. The nurse doesn’t look at him even once, but he’s used to the hollow pangs in his chest at this point.

From there, the rumors only grow. He’s called _‘Robo-boy,’_ and _‘Second-Hand Experiment,’_ and _‘Magitek trash,’_ and that hits too close to home. 

Way too close. 

He should have known it would come to this. Details of the Magitek Infantry were bound to come to light, given the growing tensions between Lucis and Niflheim. Someone would have noticed the correlation sooner or later. 

He just wishes it would have come later.

He dreams of scalpels and drills and wires with the gnashing, gleaming teeth of maniacal smiles behind them. He dreams of watching himself take that broken steel broom and sticking the sharp end through each and every one of the kids who mocked him, a machine gone haywire, completely devoid of control.

He cries when he wakes up, terrified he’ll lose himself. 

When he falls back asleep, he dreams of the man who gave him a name. His face is blurry. He’s covered in strings of fairy lights.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ he says, and Prompto bursts into flames.

* * *

The next time it happens is very soon after that, because the principal shows up at his tiny, bedraggled abode and demands to see his parents. When Prompto explains they’re not there, she scoffs out an, “Of course they’re not. Who would be?” Very quickly, he is told that due to terrorizing and endangering other students, Prompto Argentum is to be moved schools effective immediately. No further explanation is given (other than an eye-roll and a sneer).

When the principal leaves, Prompto stands, staring at the cement wall outside his apartment with the door wide open. Eventually, he turns around and gently shuts the door behind him.

Only, the door slams into the wood of the threshold, splintering at the point of contact, and the knob remains in Prompto’s hand, dented like the leg of that bedframe and very much detached from the actual door. 

The scary thing? He really _did_ close it gently.

Fear crawls up Prompto’s spine. It’s a familiar fiend, but Prompto can’t shake it this time. 

He’d lost control. He hadn’t even _registered_ the anger. He hadn’t been able to do a thing about it.

He’s a danger. A menace. A _liability._

Prompto stares at the doorknob in his hand. He doesn’t bother telling his parents. No, they wouldn’t do anything about it anyway. They’d tell him to fix it himself, so that’s what Prompto does. He’s a quick learner, and his father left power tools in the storage room, so he just doesn’t sleep until he’s got a new, ramshackle door in a semi-fractured frame. He gets a few splinters-- both from the destruction and creation of the door-- but it’s fine. 

He transfers schools.He has to sacrifice his meager allowance (and a few meals, but that was probably for the better anyway) to afford the new educational products and a bus pass to make it to school on time, but it’s the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to Prompto. 

He’s completely ignored. No one calls him names. No one goes out of their way to make fun of him. No one does anything. He’s totally alone. 

It’s so, _so_ nice. He’s able to exist in _peace._

And then it isn’t.

It hits Prompto with startling clarity as he gazes at the moldy roof of his one-bedroom apartment: he could disappear and no one would notice. He could leave and never come back and no one would even think to bat an eye. He could take the advice of the kids from his previous school and see to the deed they could never accomplish and take a leap--

No. 

There’s fear that comes with those thoughts, so Prompto does what he’s been taught. He plays video games. He eats. He reads. He eats. He listens to the rumors-- rumors that aren’t about him, but about the prince. Every word is full of awe and respect and it’s terribly different from the rumors Prompto is used to, but…

Gossip is gossip. In the end, Prince Noctis ends up alienated from everyone around him all the same. Even though they’ve never spoken, Prompto finds solidarity in him, watching the prince from afar. Even tainted scum like him can have something in common with the epitome of royalty. It’s a comforting thought, somehow.

* * *

It happens again when Prompto has to go in to get measured for a new prosthetic. He’s thirteen-- very much a minor-- so his parents still have to be present for appointments and put up all those facades that had so effortlessly tricked everyone when they’d adopted him. 

Mr. Argentum comes in late in the evening the night before the appointment. He reeks of something sour and his face is flushed. Alarm bells go off in Prompto’s head, and he’s ready when a glass bottle with that same sour smell comes flying his way. It shatters behind him. Prompto’s head is reeling. 

Mr. Argentum screams. He screams at the walls and at Prompto and at _‘god’._ He makes sure that Prompto knows how much he hates that a Niff shares his family name. Based on everything Prompto’s come to learn about the Niffs, he’s inclined to validate Mr. Argentum’s perspective. 

Eventually, the yelling comes to an end. Mr. Argentum exhausts himself and slumps down on the couch. Prompto gets him a blanket and a glass of water. He sits there, staring at the face of the man who was supposed to love him. He sits and stares for a long time. 

An hour passes. Prompto gets up. He takes a deep breath.

And then he punches a wall. A brick wall which ends up crumbling beneath his fist. 

At this point, though, Prompto isn’t surprised. He just cries into his shattered knuckles and claws at the black brand on his wrist.

* * *

One day, Prompto comes home to an injured dog limping along outside his house. He treats its wound and takes it in to heal. He names it Tiny, and quickly finds himself with a startling amount of affection for the dog. 

He doesn’t even laugh at the fact that he loves a dog more than his parents. He’s just too happy to finally be able to _love_ and be _loved back._

Prompto wakes to little puppy kisses and finds himself laughing first thing in the morning. He finds that looking after another something gives him drive, even if he doesn’t understand why. 

He loves Tiny _fiercely,_ with all the affection that had been deprived from him for all these years. He takes the nothing that was given to him and pays it forward in spades of affection. 

Tiny becomes a light in his life. Prompto loves Tiny, and Tiny loves Prompto back.

It’s foolish thinking. 

He comes home to an empty apartment one day. The moment he steps inside, he can _feel_ the difference. It’s emptier and colder than it’s ever been. 

Prompto wishes that he had never found Tiny. 

He was never taught that loss hurt this bad.

* * *

The letter from Lunafreya helps. Prompto has a goal now. He has to befriend Prince Noctic. No, he _wants_ to befriend Prince Noctis. 

But he needs to be good enough. 

Apparently, being good enough entails starvation, over exercise and a couple willful trips to the toilet. Apparently, being good enough means that he feels terribly inadequate, even when his weight deems him ‘good enough’ (or even _skinny)_ by societal standards. 

The malnourishment along the way is just as addicting as overeating, Prompto learns, but it _hurts._ In a bout of absolute, desperate hunger, Prompto _squeezes_ at his stomach and wishes the cramps away, only to be rewarded with a burst of agony. He gasps and rolls onto his side, cradling his stomach. When the pain subsides, he’s surprised at what he sees.

For once, the starvation hadn’t been the thing to hurt him. Blood trickles down from where his blunt nails dug into the disgusting flab of his belly. He thinks he might have heard something crack-- a rib, maybe-- and bruises quickly come to life under where his hand just was. 

Prompto consults his best friend on the subject of what may be a cracked (or maybe broken) rib-- the internet. He finds that doctors just tell you what you already assumed-- that you injured a rib-- then order you to take it easy and send you packing.

Great, that’s what Prompto was going to do anyway.

He does his best to take it easy-- as easy as possible when he has two part-time jobs and a new friend to make. But it’s fine. As long as he doesn’t breathe too deeply...

He’ll be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little headcanon I came up with: I like to think that the reason Prompto was so attached to Luna was because she was the first person who seemed to actually acknowledge his presence. Like, in Brotherhood, I was super weirded out by the fact that Prom frickin' _smelled_ the letter, but then I was like, "Yo, this is the first time he's had _anyone_ really even notice him, seeing as his parents don't seem to ever be home." It kinda made the whole sniffing thing really sad once I'd thought that.
> 
> I know this chapter had a lot of angst, but we're gonna get some good ol' comfort in the next one :D! At least, that’s what I have _planned,_ but... I tend to be very bad at following plans. Hopefully this won’t get too long, lmao. 
> 
> Anyway! This fic has a weekly updating schedule. I'm making it a goal to post for this every Friday. If you have suggestions, feedback, questions, ideas, or anything, drop a comment-- they fuel my motivation to write (cough cough and to live cough cough XD). 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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